By Gemma Nichols

I smell the twinkling stench of disrupt in the perfect darkness.
White, blank fingers twist lit matches,
burning their soft withered fingertips.
A treacherous fire rains down upon me.
Nowhere left to hide,
my eyes squeeze shut and i drift back to
the sweet terrain of the cinnamon fields.
Dancing, free and alone.
Kicking up a fiery dust that i have learned to breathe
after a long life lived,
here in the cinnamon fields.

Plump caterpillars gorge
choking, coughing, and bursting with flaming dust.
In a different world
they would blossom into butterflies,
but here beasts are born.
Shedding a thick cocoon of blood,
forged from the suffocating pain of a life lived in dust.
Now smooth warmth erupts from their bellies.
A fire,
a well-earned light, can be found within.

My eyes open.
The ghostly hands edge closer,
grasping tightly in their shaking fingers,
a dozen burning matches.
The orange waves lick
and grab
and scream,
trying to grasp
onto anything
and I just watch.
The shadows wiggle,
rigid and tired.
Tickling my skin,
painting their chaotic dance
in my eyes.

The flame hits!
tangled up in
abrupt awareness:
fire cannot burn if
darkness is not there
to sculpt its uneasy shape.
I have a flame of my own.
Not of destruction and fear…
Of light.

–

Gemma Nichols is a 16 year old from Chattanooga TN. Her favorite author is Emily St. John Mandel and her favorite genres are poetry and science fiction.